


Give Me the Silent Sun

by keire_ke



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Edmund danced at the Beltane fires, and one time he didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me the Silent Sun

Title: Give Me the Silent Sun  
Rating: 18  
Pairings: Caspian/Edmund  
Genre: Romance, drama  
Wordcount: 11k  
Warnings: sexual situations involving minors (this warning is more scary than the actual situation).  
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: this story will give you whiplash. XD Sorry.

Betaed by Rroselavy. <3

Dedicated to Downthemanwhole, for pretty much making my weekend, a few weeks back.

 

i.

Edmund teeters at the edge of the stone ring as the stacks of wood are arranged around a handful of dry hay.

“Do you want to light it, kid?” the man says, and Edmund nearly trips in his eagerness to get his chubby little hands on the lit ember he holds. It calls to him, the shimmering orange-brightness, barely even a flame.

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Mother says, grasping his shoulder before he can cross the stone ring.

“Mum, please!”

“It’s perfectly fine, miss, I’ll make sure he don’t hurt himself none.”

“Well, alright,” Mother says, and Edmund steps to the pile, which is easily as tall as he is. The man puts the lit piece of wood in his hand and shows him how to angle it so he doesn’t burn his hand. Edmund kneels on the ground and reaches into the pyre to lay the brand on the hay.

For a moment nothing happens and Edmund feels the pang of disappointment. Then, as he watches, a flash of yellow flickers across the ember and jumps onto the straw. The first flames are thin and spindly, barely even enough to see by, but they are there and they spread, rushing along the straws. He watches, fascinated, as the fire grows and consumes the hay, sending specks of burning hay high up into the cluster of brushwood.

He would gladly watch it all night, but he is being pulled back right before the heat spreads its welcoming arms to him and the fire shoots up into the sky.

“Did you see that?” he calls to Mother over the roaring of the new fire. “Did you? Did you?”

“Of course, dear,” Mother says, but she is looking the other way. “Peter, where is Lucy?”

Peter shrugs and he and Mother rush away after the toddler, leaving Edmund staring at the fire. It crackles merrily, far happier than the fires in the oven or even the fireplace. Edmund reaches out his hands and watches the light colour them orange.

There are people coming from all over now and more fires are lit. Edmund remembers there will be dancing and hopes they will bring cakes. There are usually cakes when there’s dancing.

He is not disappointed. A nice lady wanders by with a basket full of sweet-smelling, warm fairy-cakes and gives him one. He says thank you, because it’s only polite and she ruffles his hair as she wanders off.

The sky overhead grows dark and even more people pour onto the field. Edmund wanders around the fires and nibbles on the cake. He’s quite full, they had a big supper just before coming out, so he’s content to tear small pieces of the treat and lick his fingers clean before taking another bite. The dancing starts around him, but he doesn’t really notice -- people pass him by in circles, leaping over stones and wood and grass, barely even touching the ground and the smoke raises over the fires, veiling the stars and the faces, both high above Edmund.

It never occurs to him that perhaps he should be afraid, that Mother is gone and he hasn’t seen Peter or Susan in a while. The cake is sweet and smells of honey and the air smells of dry birch and sap, and there is heat and cold, alternatively teasing at his face and he feels light, like he is floating.

He likes the feeling.

Edmund is halfway done with the cake when he spots another child, closer to his age than Susan or Lucy, squatting near one of the bonfires. He’s a little surprised -- he saw no other children so far. The adults pay no attention to either of them, turning and whirling, lost in the dance. Some women have flowers in their hair and some have fruit, which Edmund finds a little strange, but it looks pretty. They all laugh and whirl and some of them sing songs he doesn’t understand; it is very pretty and interesting, but Edmund is just a little boy and things that are pretty and loud are still a little bit scary.

“Hi,” Edmund says, squatting beside the other boy.

“Hi,” he replies and stares at Edmund oddly.

“Do you want some of this?” It’s a good cake and he is loath to part with it, but his tummy is so full he might burst, and Mother always says sharing is polite.

The boy looks at the cake and then at him and takes it. Edmund beams and, as the cake disappears, so does the other boy.

“Are you here with your mum, too?” Edmund asks.

“My nurse. I don’t have a mum.”

Edmund tilts his head, because the words have no meaning to him, despite the unnamed horror that lurks underneath. “How can you not have a mum? Everyone has a mum.”

“Not me,” he says and sticks his fingers into his mouth. “She died.”

Edmund still doesn’t understand, because mums don’t die, but nods. “Why do you sound so funny?”

“I don’t sound funny!”

“Yes, you do!”

“Well, you sound funny, too!”

“I do not!” Edmund glares at the strange boy, and he glares right back. The fire lights up half his face, while the other remains dark and maybe they would have fought, but a gust of wind sends the smoke their way and they start coughing. Edmund’s eyes are wet and his throat is burning and the strange boy is clutching his shirt as they stagger away from the fire.

They stand together, side by side, inhaling the cool night air. Edmund’s throat feels scratchy and he is, unexpectedly, quite cold, now that he is away from the fire. He shudders and feels the strange boy shudder, too.

A couple dances around them, raising their joined hands over the two of their heads. The lady has red-currants in her golden hair, smooth like glass, woven with dark green leaves, and she is laughing merrily, and so is the man, whose head is adorned with horns and a deer mask. They whirl around them, and Edmund is sure they are staring straight at him, but how could the man see anything when the eyes of the mask are placed on either side of his head, and maybe it’s no man but a deer, maybe it’s no lady, but a flame.

Edmund and the boy cling together, because these two are beautiful, but they are also terrible. They burn like the fire, they are cold and Edmund thinks he might cry, because he is confused and he is afraid and doesn’t want to be, because boys should be brave, but he cannot help it.

Fortunately, they circle around them once, twice and then the dance takes them elsewhere into the night and Edmund finds he can breathe easily again. The other boy looks at him and his dark eyes are wide and frightened.

“They were pretty,” he says. Edmund just nods.

“I’m cold.” Edmund lets go of the boy’s shirt and wraps his arms around himself. It’s a little warmer, but no less scarier, so he compromises by grabbing the boy’s hand. It’s safer, he remembers, to hold hands when you can’t see too far. That way, when you’re lost, you will not be lost alone.

It’s so dark, all of sudden. The great fires have gone out, leaving behind nothing but sparks and charcoal and smoke. The people have gone, too. Edmund can hear laughter dwindling in the distance, even as fog creeps towards them.

“Mum,” he whispers, because the world is reduced to shapes and glow, and the only thing that’s still there is the dark-haired boy, who clutches his hand and shivers by his side.

He sees something move in the mist and lets go, rushes a few steps because it must be mum, mustn’t it, come to fetch him. Too late he remembers the boy, and he stops and turns only to find that he is staring back as well, but the mist is thickening and he is no more than a shadow in the distance, too far to reach.

“Mum!” he yells. “Mum!”

“Edmund!”

The shape that might be his mum solidifies, rushes towards him, snatches him off the ground and just holds him, repeating his name. “Edmund! Don’t ever do this again! You could have gotten lost, you could have gotten hurt!”

He says nothing. He wraps his arms around Mother’s neck, nestles his head on her shoulder and doses. Tomorrow he will ask that they return to the village, so he can find the other boy and play with him some more.

Tomorrow.

 

ii.

A dryad bows before him. She is one of the birch people -- slender, pale, with a healthy, bright laugh, not unlike the tingling of the silver bells. There is a wreath of leaves and flowers in her hands, green and fresh.

Edmund inclines his head and she places the wreath atop it like it was a crown, and in a way it is, though he is barefoot and not that different from the others, who had gathered in the grove to celebrate Beltane night.

“My king,” she whispers, and it is like the whisper of the wind among the branches. The brief touch of her lips on his is sunshine, wine, and the song of the birds, high among the trees. She smells of the forest and the meadows, of fresh earth and sun-warmed stones.

Then she is gone, swept into the circling dancers by a faun. Edmund watches her slender figure weave in and out of the crowd and smiles, at least until he notices Lucy, who has clearly thrown all sense of propriety out the window. She wears nothing but a white chemise and a wreath of white lilac upon her brow. He should be outraged, really, because it is not proper for a queen to dance unclothed, but he cannot find the heart, not in the face of such merriment. She is not a queen tonight and he is not king; it is not Narnia that is their kingdom but Beltane, the festival, the night and the fires.

A faun presses a goblet into his hand and Edmund drinks it without hesitation. The wine is cool and sweet, sharp as icy water and soothing like sunlight. The light is brighter now, the shapes clearer. Edmund opens his eyes and the whole world is different, new.

Lucy laughs at him across the fire and holds her hands with a river god, and she is still a child, maybe only for this one summer, so Edmund smiles and, when the circle brings her towards him, grasps her hands and joins the dance.

The fire crackles before him, sending a myriad of sparks across the sky in a tidal wave and he laughs, drunk on the fresh air, on the smell of spring and the heady scent of smoke. The earth is light underneath his feet and, though the steps have never been taught, he feels the movement of the dancers like they were his own, and he is lost among them, he is one of them, they are he and he is them.

Eventually, the crowds thin as couples separate from the dance and disappear into the groves and Edmund feels -- a distant, misty thought -- that he should find Lucy and take her home safely, because he trusts the Narnians, and none of them would hurt her, but the night is old magic and it curls around him. He feels it in his body, pulsing, demanding, thrumming to the beat of the fauns’ pipes. It’s warm in his belly and he shouldn’t trust it, when it moves him through the dance precisely because it moves him, and one should never, ever trust thoughts that aren’t one’s own, but he does, he throws himself in its arms and trusts that he will be safe.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lucy, with the royal cloak wrapped around her shoulders and Mr Tumnus’ hand, guiding her back towards Cair Paravel. He catches the faun’s eye and -- as Lucy yawns -- nods. Tumnus offers a half-bow and turns his attention to the young queen, then they disappear among the trees, and Edmund returns to the whirlwind of the dance.

A lady grasps his hands then and smiles at him. There are berries in her hair and flowers and twigs, and her golden curls float around her face, like a cloud, framing the smile of her coral lips and the whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes are bright as the fires, and Edmund feels a stab of fear, because it is not right, it’s not his dance that she pulls him into. He stumbles and loses his grip on her hand, but someone catches him then, pulls him up and the dance continues. His legs are sure again and the night is dark and endless as he looks in the face of the youth that caught his hand.

The momentum pulls them into a circle with their hands still joined, but there is no one else to keep them from falling then; the meadow is empty but for the night, and them, and the remnants of fire, and Edmund sees fear and wonder in the boy’s face and somehow he knows that the lady has danced with him also, that she has brought them together.

They dance on among the shadows and smoke and flames. Closer and closer, they spin around the fire, around each other and then, when the music builds to a crescendo, they step forward, and their lips taste of smoke and wine.

The music thrums in him even now and the magic coils in his belly. The dance brought him here, he knows this, so he takes the boy’s hand and pulls him into the trees, where the others went. The grove is vacant and dark, and the music moves the leaves on the trees. Edmund falls into the high, springy grass, pulling the boy with him. Their hands entwine as they kiss, and it is still the same dance, the same music that moves them both.

The boy’s eyes are dark as the night when they separate. The music is quiet now and the fires are far, but there is a new kind of fire in Edmund’s veins. The boy’s lips are soft and moist, and they kiss again. They tumble in the soft grass, shedding clothes, not that there’s much to shed.

Edmund shivers at the touch of skin, and the boy is just as wide-eyed as he, but the dance urges them on and the music thrums, unheard, pulsing through their veins. They are both unsure, but that doesn’t matter, not when the music guides their hands, their lips, not when their bodies alight and burn in the night.

There is cold around them and heat between them, trapping them in a bubble no bigger than the two of them, and they are both so young and inexperienced that it was never going to be anything but a fumble. Their hands bump and twist when they should be stroking, and then they laugh, between kisses that are all enthusiasm and little skill. Somehow it works out, somehow all that Edmund knows -- thinks he knows -- doesn’t matter and this bumpy slippery contact is enough.

The world is spinning around them, or so it seems, but when it finally stops Edmund finds he’s lying curled in the high grass, and that someone is holding him close, that his own hands are wrapped around someone else. He’s breathing hard and his limbs shake, but the arms wrapped around him are warm and hold him tight and their mouths brush when they breathe.

High above, the sky begins to brighten. It will be many hours before the sun is up, but the first birds begin their tweeting, and soon the various creatures will emerge to start their days.

He needs to go. He is the king, after all, he shouldn’t let any of his subjects catch him naked in the woods. It wouldn’t be proper.

Still he remains. The grass is soft and the boy is warm and he smiles, looks at his face without reverence or fear. He just looks and smiles. Edmund brushes the hair out of his eyes and kisses him.

“I have to go,” he says regretfully. He doesn’t dare to raise his voice over a whisper, partly because the forest is still sleeping, and he has no desire to wake it, but mostly it is because the words are real enough; giving them volume would make them hurt.

“I know,” the boy says, just as quietly. He is sad as he does. “I must go, too.”

They say nothing else when they pull on their clothes. They kiss one last time before the birds start singing and the grove bustles with life, and it’s almost chaste, just lips against lips. It’s gratitude, hope and regret; it is sweet like the first love and bitter like the first good bye.

The mist rises from the ground as the sky grows ever brighter. It’s so thick that when Edmund takes a few steps towards the trees and turns back, he can only see the pale shadow of the other boy, and then nothing but the milky whiteness. He’s lucky he knows the grove well, so it is with minimal stumbling that he makes his way out into the meadow where the air is clearer.

Mr Tumnus is waiting for him there, with a heavy red cloak over his arm. “Your Majesty,” he says with a respectful bow.

“I’m terribly sorry, have you been waiting long?”

“I was worried your Majesty would catch a cold.” It’s not much of an answer. Edmund can see the faun is cold.

“Thank you,” Edmund says and gratefully wraps the cloak around himself. He wasn’t cold last night, far from it, but the cover is welcome now. “You’re terribly kind.”

“Not far from here there is the hut of the badgers, they should be up by now. I think they would be happy to offer you something hot to drink, Sire.”

“I would love that,” Edmund says and follows the faun. He casts one last look at the trees behind him and prays he never meets that boy again, unless it is by the Beltane fire.

 

iii.

Edmund rushes out of the How, biting his lip to stop himself from screaming. The fools! Can’t they be sane? Can’t they think for ten minutes?

The ice burns him even now. He feels her arms wrapping around him. Her fingers are cold in his hair, her mouth at his temple, whispering hateful things in his ear. He springs out of the How and runs down the hill, hiding among the trees. The branches smack his face as he rushes past, and that’s fine, they slap the witch’s touch away and he is free. Still he runs, for fear she might follow.

It’s just as well. He can’t stand to look at Peter, nor Caspian at the moment. Bloody, contemptuous fools, can’t think straight for ten minutes before summoning forces they cannot control.

He comes to a stop in a clearing, and leans against a tree. “Bloody fools,” he says to the night. He’s warmer now, thankfully. The icy touch is gone, the press of lips and fingers a memory, no stronger than that of battle, just as it will always be.

With a heavy heart he separates from the tree, wipes a hand across his face and looks around. There is a fire in the distance and a handful of slender creatures dance around it. Edmund sighs and starts walking towards it. Damn fauns; he appreciates their need to relax and dance -- it is Beltane, he realises with a start -- but they are at war. Fires are not a good idea.

He walks into the clearing, unnoticed for the roaring fire. Edmund smiles at it. It’s warm and welcoming and Aslan help him if he wasn’t dying for another peaceful Beltane in Narnia.

A faun grins at him across the circle, and Edmund opens his mouth to tell them to quit and put out the fire and hide, but he no sooner does he open his mouth when there is a sharp voice yelling “charge” and they are overrun by a squad of armoured Telmarines.

Edmund doesn’t let himself think. His sword is warm and comforting in his hand as he roars at the fauns and other creatures -- by the lion, some of them are cubs! -- to hide, before thrusting the blade into the nearest man’s throat. There’s not a fighter among them, he realises with dread as he leaps over the dying man to push another into the fire and yank a small rabbit from harm’s way.

“Fly, idiots!” he yells, and then there is no room in his head for thought, there is only the turn, slash, stab, leap, the deadly dance of blood and death.

He is alone in the dark forest, but for the armed knights. He is alone and he is quite likely doomed, but still he dances, whirling around the fire as the knights bleed and die and then all of sudden he is not alone; someone dances with him, matching his steps, turning when he does like they were shadows of one man.

Out of the corner of his eye Edmund sees a horned head and an animal pelt over a heaving chest. His skin is tanned and gleaming, there are coarse hairs streaming from below the mask, with berries and leaves woven throughout. In his hand there is a knife, or possibly a spearhead, made of stone.

Edmund sees a Telmarine to his right and, somehow, he knows to dive underneath the man’s arms. The music should have stopped a long time ago, but he feels its drumming and he knows the steps, so he knows that when his back is turned, the horned man will drive the stone spear into the Telmarine’s neck, spraying them both with his blood. Some of it lands in the fire, which greedily devours the drops, hissing as they burn.

The man-creature is spattered in blood and he whirls around Edmund, taking down the knights without a thought, like he was born to do it; he revels in the kills, and they all fall at his blade. Edmund barely has time to raise his sword and take a swing at a man’s head, before more pour into the narrow passage between the stones at the far-end of the clearing and the deer-headed man and he are back to back, their swords -- and they are swords now, not a sword and a stone spearhead -- whirl in unison, while the flames flicker.

They win. When the last of the Telmarine knight falls Edmund is breathing hard, but they have conquered and now he turns to thank his saviour and cannot help but stare.

“You- you’re a Telmarine,” he manages between wheezes. He stands before a man of about forty winters, a head taller than him, handsome and dark. He is clad similarly to Caspian, and, from Edmund has been able to see, Miraz.

The man stares at him, hard. His eyes are wide and misted with tears, his mouth parts and he tries to say something, but the sharp edge of the sword before his face makes him think better of it. “I’m a Narnian,” he says, and by his accent Edmund almost believes him.

The fires shimmer and the mist clings to the stone and tree. Edmund shakes his head and his gaze falls to the sword the man holds, a sword with a lion’s head and a bright, never-dimming blade--

“That is Peter’s,” he says calmly and his own sword automatically raises between the two of them again.

“It is mine. It was a gift.” Rhindon -- or rather its twin -- is sheathed and the man raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Please. I’m your friend.”

Edmund glares, but there is the insistent sincerity in the man’s expression. The light deceives him, because the face looks familiar; not the face of a soldier he killed in battle, but that of someone dear, someone he could trust, a long time ago. He sheathes his sword, but doesn’t come any closer.

“Right. I must go back.”

“Are you missed?”

“Not so much missed, perhaps, but I fear there is much fighting going on in the How at the moment.”

The man hesitates. “Are you fighting the Telmarine army?”

“At the moment Peter’s fighting Caspian and it would be best not to let them kill one another.”

The man grins and shakes his head. “I’m sure they will be fine.”

“One can only hope.”

The mist is thicker now. Smoke is woven into it, and Edmund can almost see it, a slightly more blue shade of white, moving through the air. The ground is soft beneath his feet, grassy. He must be far from the How, which spells out more danger than he can possibly imagine at the moment, certainly more than he can handle.

It was stupid of him, to wander this far alone. It’s lucky the forest is so quiet.

Which, come to think of it, is most queer. True, the beasts have been quiet under the Telmarine rule, but this utter silence is something different. Edmund shudders. Something is most strange, and the man who saved his life is still staring at him.

“What?” Edmund asks, not out of annoyance, but because there is entirely too much intensity in the attention, intensity that he feels he doesn’t merit.

“You’re so young.”

“It’s a complicated story.”

“You fight and kill like the most valiant knights I know, but you look like a child. It is a little strange to see.”

“Trust me, it’s no stranger than what I actually am.”

“I know what you are,” the man says. “You are a ghost.”

“No, I don’t think I am that. I’m real.” Edmund grins and looks at the fire. “Will you help me? I need to put it out, before more of them see the glow.”

Together they heap dirt onto the still roaring flames, until finally the fire dies and the mist pours into the clearing. Edmund shivers. The night is still young and, judging by the lack of search parties, the squad is not missed, which doesn’t bide well for the upcoming battle. So many beasts and creatures have already died, many more would die tomorrow and, by the end, when Miraz storms the How, Caspian will be executed and all of this will have been for naught.

Edmund startles when lips touch his forehead. It’s a prickly kiss, but what’s more surprising is that the man managed to come so close without him realising it, and that he felt no inclination to leap away. There is something almost familiar about him; he smells of leather, horse and sweat, but it’s a good kind of smell. Familiar. The smell of armour and exercise in the field, of wind and sand on the road between the mountains.

“You will win this war,” the man says, holding Edmund’s chin in place. He looks into his eyes and Edmund sees confidence and truth there; he sees breathtaking affection. “You will win and Caspian will be king. Trust me.”

“I,” Edmund starts to say, when a noise startles them both. Edmund whirls in its direction, sword drawn. Behind him he hears the man doing the same, but the mist is so thick they lose sight of one another the moment they step away. He hears the footsteps mirroring his on the grass for a little longer, but soon they too dissolve in the milky whiteness -- they must have split, the forest plays tricks on people. He will find his way back, Edmund thinks. They couldn’t have been far from the Telmarine encampment, if he saw the fires too.

“My king!” someone calls in a whisper and Edmund turns to find a faun, his eyes wide in fear. “My king, you should not wander alone, it is the night of Beltane!”

“I know. We must be swift, I was accosted by a party of Telmarines.” Edmund nudges a dead man with his sword, just to be sure.

The faun -- Edmund is relatively sure his name is Minnus -- pays it no heed. “Sire, they are the least of our worries on such a night.”

“I always liked Beltane,” Edmund says as they make their way back. He feels lighter now. Even if the strange man was Telmarine, even if he were to face him in battle tomorrow, he had been true, and Edmund knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would win.

“It is not safe. The Horned Hunter has long forsaken this land which rejected him and the lady, but the mists remain in their absence, to avenge the wrongs done to them. Many a man has gone into the woods on Beltane and not returned, and we rejoiced, because the land doesn’t favour the Telmarines, but for you, my king! It is not safe for the children of Adam and Eve, not tonight.”

Edmund blinks. “A horned man? Gone? But I’ve seen him tonight. He wore fruit and leaves in his hair, and a deer mask. He helped me against the knights.”

The faun nearly falls to the ground. “The Hunter has returned? Sire, are you sure?”

“Unless there is some other bloke who dances with a stone spearhead with horns on his forehead, I mean, it is just a mask.”

“Bless you, Your Majesty,” the faun says and, to Edmund’s surprise, bows before him so low his horns disappear in the grass. “That Herne himself came to your aid! With him returned we cannot fail! The trees shall wake, Aslan shall surely follow, come, Sire, we must spread the news at once, we have the land on our side once more!”

“Wait, wait. It wouldn’t do to go on being this enthusiastic, this hunter is just one man, we need to win this properly,” Edmund says. “And we will. Trust me.”

Of course, all the fauns and centaurs are already buzzing with excitement the moment they step back into the camp. Edmund rolls his eyes when none of them can see, but he proceeds into the heart of the How without hesitation, to find Caspian and Peter sulking on opposite ends of the chamber.

“Right,” he says to them. “No more of that. We are winning this.”

 

iv.

The images won’t get out of his head, no matter how hard he tries. Because he is a masochist, he makes Eustace describe the scene in detail, again and again, until he is close to tears.

Caspian is old. An old man, not just old like a child perceives men over the age of thirty, but truly old, wizened by time and tragedy. He is sickly and dying, and Edmund hates Eustace with the same passion he reserves for murderers, oath-breakers and watermelons, because the words will never stop ringing in his ears and his mind will never stop showing the images to him. Except he will never be able to imagine Caspian as old, and he’s had very little experience with natural death, so instead what he finds himself watching in the privacy of his head is Caspian being mercilessly slaughtered by unseen foes and collapsing lifelessly onto the bloodied ground.

He hates his brain. He abhors it with a passion.

He rises during the night and slips out of his room. It’s just as well that Peter’s away and couldn’t come. He has a room all to himself in the night, because Eustace sleeps like the dead, and he can dress and be out of the house, unnoticed. Thank god they are not in Finchley, he thinks as he steps out the door and starts running. Thank god for the small mercies of family vacation.

The night is overcast, but there’s little chance of rain. Edmund runs until he reaches the edge of the village, from where he has the view of the countryside. There he stops to catch his breath and look. There are fires as far as the eye can see, roaring bonfires, surrounded by merry people.

It’s Beltane. It seems sometimes that his life is a string of Beltanes, one after the other. Fires and mead and dance. He doesn’t even think; he lets his legs carry him towards the music and noise.

No one notices his arrival. No one notices when he snatches a tall glass of beer and drains it in one go -- no one but a group of drunken boys, who cheer his best efforts to get drunk as quickly as he possibly can. When one of them hands him a half-full bottle of vodka he tips it over his mouth without hesitation.

How dare he die, he asks himself, as he sets the bottle on the table and looks around. He sees the fire with perfect clarity, sees the men and boys dancing around it, and none of them has dark hair and dark eyes, none of them are Caspian.

How dare he die, the lying son of a swine, the Telmarine filth. How dare he make promises he had no intention of keeping, how dare he! Oath-breaker, liar, fiend.

The fire flickers and for a second -- by the lion, he is so sure -- he sees his face, serene and peaceful in the flames and he leaps towards it, mindless of the heat. There is no sense, no reason in him, he would have leapt to his death, to chase down the vision in smoke, fortunately someone grasps his hand just then and pulls him into the circle of dancers. He follows, because what use is it chasing after the lying bastard, what use is it to keeping looking.

The girl who grabbed him still holds his hand and maybe even looks at him strangely, but he doesn’t care. He stares at the flames, glares, blind to everything but the orange glow. He welcomes the burn on his face, whenever he gets too close to the ring of stones, it takes his mind off the fire in his heart.

How dare he! Useless, back-stabbing, pitiful excuse for a king! They should have let him perish, should have let him die and be fed to Miraz’s dogs, should have left well enough alone!

Someone on his left hands him a bottle and he takes a drink. It’s awful, something brewed in a pot in the back of the stable, but it’s strong and pungent and he takes another swig, because surely this will be strong enough to dissolve Caspian’s face in his mind, dissolve the memory of him.

He stumbles and some kind soul relieves him of the bottle. The girl who pulled him into the dance is still at his side, so he leans against her. She laughs and her eyes are bright, her hair is reddish gold. In the flickering flames it’s nearly impossible to tell if her face has freckles on it, but Edmund could bet she’s nearly orange with them. She’s pretty and she glows, like the star has glowed on Ramandu’s Island, only she glows with the light of the fire, warm and hot.

Go to hell, Caspian, Edmund thinks and kisses her. Her mouth parts beneath his and she tastes of beer and vodka and ever so slightly of red-currants.

Go to hell and burn, you miserable bastard.

She leads him away from the fire and into the grove of trees. Edmund hears some other couple getting it on behind the bushes, but he doesn’t really care, he couldn’t care if he was ordered to. He hopes Caspian is watching, from wherever he is, he hopes he’s watching and that it fucking hurts.

Her lips are soft and her skin is smooth as silk. She has long hair, which Edmund bundles and lets slip through his fingers as they kiss. Her hands run through his hair, draw his shirt out of his pants and dig into his sides, when his skim across her breasts.

She guides his hands to the zipper on the back of her dress, shakes the straps off her shoulders. Edmund hitches up her skirt, pushes her underpants down her legs and pulls her down onto his lap, because, though the night is warm, the grass is wet, and he hates Caspian with a passion, she is a nice girl and he doesn’t want her to catch a cold.

She has small hands, delicate -- a city girl, he thinks, not one of the locals -- and her touch means business; she touches him with enough finesse that he knows he won’t be her first. She’s surprisingly heavy, when she lifts herself of his fingers and slides onto his cock, rocking against him to the beat of the music of the guitar.

“You sigh, the song begins, you speak, I hear violins,” someone sings. It’s not a bad rendition, not at all; the girl who sings may well have been Doris Day, her voice is seductive and sultry and Edmund presumes it is the guitarist she sings it too, he hears the nauseatingly infatuated tone in her voice, which echoes in the increasingly clumsy notes spilling from the guitar’s strings.

He bites his lip, because he won’t cry, hell no. Caspian doesn’t deserve his tears, he deserves to burn. He deserves everything nasty that he had coming to him anyway. He tells himself this and still the tears come, thankfully his face is pressed against the girl’s breasts and, anyway, she doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him. He mouths at her collarbone until she looks down at him, gasps, and then they are kissing.

It’s Beltane, he thinks stupidly, and even here the magic still works, somehow, because high in the trees the moon is gazing down at him and the girl shudders as he starts stroking her again. She moans into his shoulder and her smooth cheek brushes his ear, and it is all he can do not to start crying again.

He shudders when he comes and slips out of her. She remains kneeling over him as they keep kissing and she pushes against his hands, demanding, until she is satisfied and then he helps her get her dress in order. They are not looking at each other, which is fine -- Edmund isn’t sure he wants to remember her face, he certainly doesn’t want her to remember his. He zips up her dress, kisses her one more time and starts walking home, taking the long way across the fields and around the village.

Fuck you, Caspian, he thinks, when the dawn finds him alone, back at the site of the fires, staring at the blackened pits. There are still flickers there, as though whoever put out the fires didn’t care to do it properly, and perhaps that’s why he returned, perhaps there was still some magic here to comfort him.

“Why won’t you just leave?” he whispers to the ashes, and reaches out to scatter the sparks in the sand.

 

v.

Edmund chucks a twig in the fire, watches it burn. Lucy grasps Peter’s hands and pulls him, despite protests, into the circle, leaving Edmund alone on the grass. Susan had long since taken to dancing, which doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. It’s a splendid party, densely populated with handsome young men and not lacking in lovely young women. It is a bit of a shock that Peter needs Lucy to join the dancers, given the sheer amount of eligible girls. Then again, Edmund grins wryly at Peter’s pained face, he never did like dancing.

Edmund laughs when one of the girls grins his way and holds out her hands. He stands up and let her pull him into the circle, into the dance. Her hair is spun gold, and it haloes her head as she stands before the great fire. The clips in her hair look almost like cranberries, red and round and pretty as her lips. She takes a swig from the bottle of beer and passes its over to him.

It’s nothing like the cheap beer they brought along. She must be from the local village, he concludes, because he tastes honey and spices and the beer is thick and rich in his mouth.

Edmund’s head is swimming, and he feels a little drunk, so pays no attention to how silly he must look, as he whirls among the girls and the boys, women and men, most of whom are holding beer bottles, with his arms spread. The girl who got him to dance is long gone, and still he spins, and his feet barely even touch the ground.

He discovers he lost his shoes at some point of the evening, which is just as well. The grass is cool and soft underneath his feet, the fire burns as bright as the sun and he feels free, up until he bumps into someone and nearly topples over from the sheer effort not to hurt them further.

He straightens himself out and his mouth falls open. “Caspian,” he breathes, and Caspian whispers his name, too.

They stare at one another for a full minute, drinking in the sight of the other’s face, the shock and utter happiness in their eyes, and Edmund doesn’t even care that he knows Caspian has been dead for the past however long is has been.

“I cursed your name,” he says finally, and though it must be a dream, or a hallucination, or someone who just looks like Caspian, Edmund takes him by the arm pulls him away from the fire. He doesn’t fancy his siblings encroaching on the moment. He doesn’t want them to steal Caspian away for question and remembrances, doesn’t want them to dispel the illusion.

They climb the grassy hill and perch in the hollow on its top. The sky is endless and brimming with stars, though Edmund’s vision is swimming and he can’t distinguish a single constellation. They are moving too fast, especially when Caspian kisses him tenderly.

“The sky is strange,” he says.

“I know.” Edmund frowns, because he recognises none of it. Oh well. He is drunk, and that’s probably okay. “Hey, didn’t know it was proper for a king to dance at Beltane.”

“Like you cared, Your Majesty?”

“It was perfectly fine to dance when I was king.”

“Then it’s perfectly fine for me as well.” There are leaves in his hair, fresh and green, woven into a circlet, and he is barefoot, hardly a decent garb for a king to don, no matter the occasion.

“We should celebrate!” Edmund says, staggering to his feet.

“I thought we are celebrating.” Caspian is just as unsteady. It’s only natural that they lean against each other as they stand, breathe the same air and giggle like schoolgirls.

“Do you realise, you were crowned shortly after Beltane. Wouldn’t this be an anniversary?”

“Thankfully, no. I wouldn’t be able to slip out of the castle if it were. Apparently there are ceremonies that need to be observed, which require my presence.”

Edmund frowns. “I was so sure it was around this time.”

“Three days from now. I’m not looking forward to it, there are visits planned.”

“Fun ones?”

“I wish! But no, Lord Bern won’t be able to make it, so it’s Galma, Archenland and Calormene, and all their ambassadors are frightful bores. Galma’s king still bears me a grudge for not marrying his daughter.”

“I know the solution to that, at least! You ought to see about maybe installing a harem, in the Calormene fashion. Then you could satisfy all the kings by marrying their daughters.”

“Oh, believe me, one queen is a handful, what would I do with a dozen?” Caspian rolls his eyes and grasps Edmund’s hand, and this is starting to look like a dance -- their hands are entwined and they face each other and they keep moving, because the music keeps playing.

The moon is enormous over their heads and the shallow bowl atop the hill is bathed in her light. Thankfully the hollow is wide enough that they cannot be visible from below. They are alone in all the world, here, and this night is for them alone to enjoy.

“Are you married then?” Edmund stumbles to the side and Caspian’s arm snakes about his waist to hold him up. “To the star?”

“I will be, all too soon,” he whispers.

Time for a subject change, Edmund thinks. This is a dream, no reason to spoil it with memories and regrets. “Have you won any tournaments recently?”

“Lost one.”

“Someone dared to defeat you?”

“A Minotaur. Broke my arm by accident. The poor thing nearly sobbed herself into a coma.”

Edmund fails to imagine a sobbing female Minotaur. He says as much.

“I know, it was so strange a sight, and she kept apologising. It was less than ten minutes before I was ready to get back onto the ring, broken arm notwithstanding, to avoid the sight of her tears.”

“Does it hurt?” Edmund asks, mindful of the arm around his waist, which holds him upright. His own hand comes to rest on Caspian’s shoulder, brushing the skin of his neck as they sway in the gentle wind.

“Given the abject misery the injury caused, I thought it justified to augment the healing with Lucy’s magic cordial. Otherwise I really think I would have to stay confined to my quarters until my arm was well again, for fear of running into her and upsetting her further.”

Edmund turns, takes a step back and Caspian follows, angling his neck just so Edmund’s forehead nestles into the curve.

“It’s very nearly summer,” he says. “School term is over. I miss it, you know. A little bit.” He hasn’t been a schoolboy for a while now, but the enormity of the world, which expects so much and offers so little fires and dances, it suffocates him.

“I’m having trouble imagining you as a schoolboy. The idea of you meek and silent in a classroom! The vision is almost too great for any man’s mind to bear.”

Edmund laughs. “It was not easy for me, either. It was so hard to be silent when the masters are so very wrong.”

“Impudent child,” Caspian mutters into his neck and it prickles and tickles and brings tears to Edmund’s eyes.

“Quite so.”

They dance on the hill, swaying with the alcohol in their blood and the music, which still floats from below, watched over by the glorious moon.

They dance until the music grows quiet and the mists rise about the edges of the hill and spill through the rim, to swirl about their bare feet. Edmund clutches Caspian’s hand and just holds him, until a gentle touch on his shoulder makes him look up.

There are faces above him, one gentle and bright, framed with gold and red, the other dark and wild; the face of the Horned Hunter. The sun is shining into his eyes and he feels Caspian’s hand slipping away from his. Though he desperately tries to hold on it is gone and he blinks against the glare of the new day.

“Ed, are you crazy? Did you sleep here all night?” Peter asks, shaking him by the shoulder. “By Jove, you’ll be lucky if you avoided pneumonia!”

“It’s quite warm, I don’t think pneumonia is a concern,” Susan says as Edmund picks himself off the grass. He’s wet from the dew and his head is aching -- he is never drinking again, he vows -- but otherwise he feels fine. The air smells fresh. He can see the landscape for miles and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It will be a beautiful day.

“What happened to your shoes?” Lucy asks, and Edmund shrugs. They’re bound to turn up sooner or later -- shoes usually do.

 

i.

“You don’t look so well,” Lucy says, laying a palm across Edmund’s forehead and peering into his eyes.

“I don’t feel so well either.” There’s a buzz underneath his skull. Getting hit on the head is not fun at all.

Lucy looks downcast. “They are lighting the fires just now.”

“I know. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Edmund!”

“I mean it. Go, have fun. I’ll sleep it off.” Edmund stretches on the bed. “Honestly, what am I, a toddler? I can look after myself for a few hours in this perfectly safe bedroom. It’s just a headache. Go!”

Lucy makes a face, but leaves. Edmund rolls his eyes at her back and turns onto his side. The curtains are wafting gently in the breeze and the sunset sets the sky on fire. As his eyes drift closed, he wonders how long will it be before the Dawn Treader is ready to set sail. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days, which is a shame -- a few days of rest, now that the islands are safe and welcoming, would be splendid.

He wakes, unexpectedly, rolling to the side before he can think about it. It takes a moment to realise someone is standing over him, a great dark shadow, most of which, Edmund realises after a moment, is a comforter in their hands.

“Caspian,” Edmund says, and his hand stops inching towards the knife that should be under the pillow, but isn’t. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not getting warmer. I don’t think it would be sensible for you to catch a cold.”

Perfectly sensible reason, though hardly explains what was Caspian doing in his bedroom in the middle of the night. “Why aren’t you at the bonfires?”

Caspian shrugs.

“No, really.” Edmund sits up. There are stars upon the dark sky, he must have slept for a few hours, so it would be about the time when the first couples would be separating from the crowd, to seek a secluded place. “We are looking at months of sea voyage, I hope you are aware of it. You really should go and have some fun.” Edmund hopes he had the common sense to let his men go.

“Does Lucy get to have fun?” Caspian said, looking part-scandalised and part amused.

“Lucy is a queen. She can handle herself.”

“She was drinking when I saw her last, and dancing with some peasant boy.”

“Kegs or barrels?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is the alcohol in kegs or barrels?”

“Kegs, why?”

“Then there’s no trouble.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Lucy can drink fauns under the table. I don’t think she’d be able to have enough to impair her judgement unless they bring out the barrels.”

“You’re quite cool about letting your sister possibly lie with a peasant boy.” Caspian, bless him, is adorable as he says so, avoiding his eyes and trying unsuccessfully to hide the flush, which blossoms across his face.

“I’m more troubled about you not lying with some peasant girl right now, to tell you the truth.”

“I hardly think that is the issue here!”

Edmund grins. “That is precisely the issue here.”

“So says the man who claims he’s not feeling well enough to venture outside.”

“Hey, I am concussed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“How would you know? The last time I checked princes didn’t receive an all-around education in medicine, so forgive me if I take your diagnosis with a grain of salt.”

“The last time you checked crossbows haven’t been invented yet, so forgive me if I don’t quite trust your grasp on current affairs.”

“True.” Edmund sighs and stretches on the bed. “Well, since you are determined not to have any fun tonight, how about a game of chess?”

“I don’t have a set.”

“There should be one in the cupboard by the door,” Edmund says. At Caspian’s incredulous glance he adds, “This room belonged to an intellectual, going by the books on the shelves, and they typically play chess. Since the books remained, I figure chess should be here too.”

Caspian still says nothing but he does check the cupboard and comes up with a dusty chess set. “You know, my uncle burned soothsayers on the stake.”

“If by soothsayers he meant people capable of rational thought, it’s no wonder he was defeated by a handful of schoolchildren.” Edmund grins at the young king and sets the board on the mattress. “I don’t approve of casting soothsayers out of your court. They are frauds, to a man, and a king should never relay on their words, but they have their uses.”

“Like you do?” Caspian smirks and brushes the dust off a piece.

“This is a parlour trick, really. Great for making diplomats nervous.”

Caspian shakes his head and goes back to the door to fetch what turns out to be a few bottles of beer. He kicks off his shoes, makes himself comfortable on the bed and offers Edmund one of the bottles.

“It seemed prudent to rescue at least these,” he says when Edmund raises a brow. “Since Lucy was in the vicinity, as you said.”

“Sensible.” Edmund drinks and moves a pawn.

Caspian nudges one of his. He is a so-so chess player, Edmund finds after a while. He thinks just fine, but unfortunately he has yet to learn not to roam the chessboard and mark the strategy with his gaze. Even if Edmund wasn’t able to play him under the table, countering his tactics wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

“Really, you need to stop doing that,” he says, taking Caspian’s queen off the board. It’s their third game, and it looks like it will be another easy victory.

“Stop doing what, losing miserably?”

“That too. I’m good at chess, but you are letting the opponent know what you’re going to do three moves in advance!”

“I can’t exactly help it.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t play poker then.” Edmund takes a swig of beer -- it’s a delectable beer, rich and cold, by some miracle, and it goes all the way to his toes. Wherever Caspian got it, it wasn’t from the party by the fires. “You are a decent player, mind you,” he says. “Or you would be, if it weren’t for the handicap.”

“I don’t have a whole lot of practice,” Caspian tells him as he takes Edmund’s knight with his rook.

The candles flicker in the wind, casting shadows on his face, until a stronger gust of wind puts them out. They sit in silence, gazing at the board, until finally Edmund moves. “Check,” he says.

Caspian gives him a look and takes the bishop with his knight. “I can’t help but feel you should let me win at least once. I am the king.”

“Why? That’s one more reason to beat you, lest it goes to your head.” Edmund grins, moves his other knight. “Checkmate.”

“That’s unfair.” Caspian leans against the bedpost and stretches his legs in front of him. Edmund grins and flops onto the pillow.

“I’ll let you beat me at sword-fighting tomorrow, deal?”

“So very kind of you.”

“I know. I’m simply amazing.”

Caspian snorts and kicks Edmund, who kicks him right back. Somehow it leads to a pillow fight, which ends with the bed in complete disarray.

“Do we have any more beer?” Edmund asks.

“Just the one bottle.”

“Great.”

Edmund accepts the bottle, swallows a mouthful and hands it back. He doesn’t watch Caspian’s mouth when he takes a drink.

“Do you realise that there will be talk?” he asks, when Caspian licks his lips and the bottle returns to him. The rim is warm, Edmund notes, though the beer is still miraculously cold.

“Talk about what?”

“About you, spending most of the Beltane night in my bedroom. And don’t even try to tell me no one has seen you. Someone always sees.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling you anything.”

“You are ruining your chances of a profitable marriage.”

“Please. I am the king of Narnia. I could shag my way through the whole of the Dawn Treader’s crew, boast it, and still the kings would line up to offer me their daughters’ hands,” Caspian says and Edmund giggles. He can’t help it, really, the very idea of Caspian persuading Drinian to bed him -- he would sell his crown to be a fly on that wall. “Somehow I doubt that shagging a King of Old would lose me any points.”

“Talking about it surely isn’t winning you any points,” Edmund very sensibly points out and is rewarded with Caspian’s weight pinning him to the mattress.

“How is your head doing, your Majesty?” His mouth is so close Edmund feels the brush of lips against his, and it is for all intents and purposes kissing, butterfly soft and teasing. His tongue darts out and brushes Caspian’s mouth.

“Better, thank you. I’m sure indulging in alcohol helped.”

“It often does,” Caspian says, nodding his head wisely. Edmund stifles another giggle. It’s unbecoming of a king to giggle, no matter how ridiculous Caspian is being, but he doesn’t care -- his mouth is soft, even if the beard isn’t.

They kiss again and again, because clearly now that there will be rumours, they might as well be worth it. Edmund pulls Caspian’s shirt out of his trousers and places the half-empty beer bottle in the small of his back. He is gratified when Caspian jerks against him and stares almost accusingly.

“Now that isn’t fair,” he says sternly, but the heat in his gaze and the frantic buckling of his hips tell another story. “Is that how you win, by cheating?”

“Depends on whom I’m playing and for what.” Edmund sits up, not that Caspian helps, and drinks the rest of the beer. He doesn’t have time to swallow properly before Caspian’s mouth is on his, licking and biting, and thoroughly ruining the aftertaste. Edmund moans in despair and not at all because Caspian is heavy against his hips, and the friction is too slow, too hot and not enough!

“Why the rush?” Caspian murmurs into his ear when Edmund bucks up. He is damnably strong and so Edmund ends up pinned, again, with Caspian’s head wedged underneath his shirt, making obscene noises against his belly.

“Stop that,” Edmund wheezes, because he can’t even laugh anymore.

Caspian grins at him, even as he undoes the lacings of his trousers. “Why?”

“Because I will get you back for this,” Edmund threatens and means it, absolutely. The arrogant little princeling has no right to make the world fall away, break apart and then light up in all kinds of interesting ways.

Edmund bites down on his knuckles, but still doesn’t quite manage to quell the rather pitiful moan that escapes his mouth.

“It would only be sporting,” Caspian says with what must be a smug smirk.

“Shut up.”

“Gladly.”

He doesn’t shut up, not exactly. Instead of going right back to what he should be doing, in Edmund’s opinion, he crawls up over him to lick his neck, from the collarbone to the chin. “I rather enjoy this look of you,” he says. His palms are very warm against Edmund’s chest. “When you can’t catch your breath.”

“Woe to Narnia,” Edmund mutters as he flips them over and tugs his shirt over his head. “I see little princes are out of question.”

“Well, one should be careful about importing royal bastards from such distant parts,” Caspian says. “Or from anywhere, really. Imports aren’t to be trusted.”

Edmund wedges a leg between Caspian’s thighs. He’s hard and feels a little bit cheated, and revenge really is best piping hot and fresh from the oven. He pushes Caspian’s shirt up over his head, and latches his mouth to his neck. He’s careful not to leave a mark, because appearances are best maintained, but there is so much that can be achieved with just the tongue. He grins when Caspian arches into his touch and mewls. Edmund grinds his hips against Caspian’s, prompting another mewl and his fingers skim the tender skin of his abdomen, tracing a line that falls just short of his cock.

The trousers are an obstacle, but there is will and way to undress in the most impossible circumstances. It takes some creative tumbling, during which Caspian throws his head back and digs his fingers into Edmund’s scalp.

“If it only took a month aboard to get you this riled, I fear for the fate of Narnian maidens when you return.”

“Are you a maiden, King Edmund?” Caspian asked, staring at him through half-lidded eyes.

“That’s an interesting question.” It is. He’s had lovers when he was a king, but then he became a child again, and being dragged from one end of the country to another because of war didn’t exactly allow for opportunities.

Edmund licks his lips and then he licks Caspian’s chest. “Did I seem like a maiden to you? Did you come here tonight in the hopes of despoiling an innocent boy?”

“I seem to be out of luck, as you had him hidden before me.”

Edmund stretches over the king, laces their fingers together. “I beg your forgiveness then. I hope you will not hold the treachery against me.”

“I might,” Caspian says, wiggling, and Edmund kisses him deeply and palms his cock. “I take that back. I have every intention of never forgiving you.”

“However will I go on?”

“I will have you confined to your quarters, kept on bread and water. You will be permitted no visitors, so that you don’t forget your insolence.”

Edmund hums into Caspian’s neck. He bites at the skin lightly, dragging his teeth and tongue onto the shoulder. The breeze from the open window does the rest and Caspian shudders into him.

“I sincerely hate you,” he says, splaying his palms on Edmund’s back and pulling them flush against each other. “With every fibre of my body.”

“Must you wound me so?” Edmund buries his face in Caspian’s hair and inhales the smoke that still clings to him. “Whatever happened to romance?”

Caspian grins -- Edmund can tell by the shift of his mouth beneath his fingers -- and starts singing, so low at first that Edmund has trouble making out the words. “… she spread her legs from wall to wall. She took the captain balls and all in the all marine squadron. We were seven days at sea, the captain took to buggery. His only joy was the cabin boy in the all marine squadron.”

He turns his head to stare at Edmund as he continues to sing, with the most solemn expression on his face. He sings it slow and sensuous, dragging each note, so that Edmund feels them curl in the air between them. He stares at Edmund, signing the most lewd verses as though they were love sonnets, and it is quite possibly the most ridiculous situation Edmund has ever found himself in.

“Keep singing,” Edmund says and starts mouthing along Caspian’s collarbone, following down his sternum and stomach, until he’s kneeling between his spread legs and his mouth is on Caspian’s inner thigh. He flicks his thumb over the head of his cock and his fingers curl around it. Caspian misses a note at the first tentative lick, but to his credit manages to hold onto the melody, at least until Edmund really gets into the spirit of the song and the singing gives way to a guttural moan that goes on for far longer than a human being should be able to exhale.

“I sincerely doubt your commitment to the art of music.”

“Do that again and I will have no commitment whatsoever to breathing,” Caspian pants, lifting himself on the elbows.

“That might be undesirable,” Edmund says.

“No, you scrubbing the Dawn Treader, top to bottom, might be undesirable.”

“I don’t know, exercise out in the sun, plenty of water to cool off, I don’t think I would complain too loud. Of course, it would be too hot to keep a shirt on, and you know how easy it is to get soaked, when the shift hits a wave and the bucket overflows.”

“I’ll murder you,” Caspian says, looking at the ceiling, and Edmund grins.

“Sing something else,” he suggests as he lowers his head again. It takes a moment but Caspian launches into another song, no less filthy than the previous. He’s still singing -- albeit the words are jumbled and failing to match with the melody -- when Edmund starts humming around his cock.

Caspian loses the song completely when he comes.

Edmund sits back on his haunches and watches him. “So, about the buggery you mentioned?” he asks casually, when Caspian looks like he might be able to process a simple question.

He miscalculates, evidently, because Caspian glares at him and answers with far more lucidity than he by rights should be capable of. “I’m sure I have a written invitation prepared, if you need one.”

His thighs quiver against Edmund’s and Edmund laughs and stretches alongside the king, pressing a line of kisses along his shoulder. Caspian is sweaty and spent, and utterly delicious; Edmund laps at the hollow of his throat and nuzzles his neck, as Caspian throws his head back and just breathes.

When he recovers enough to will his limbs to do more than twitch, he finishes what he started earlier.

*****

Dawn wakes him. Or at least he assumes it’s dawn, as the gentle light spilling into the room is certainly the right colour and texture, but the window is far enough from the bed it couldn’t have woken him.

“Edmund,” someone says and he looks up to find Lucy standing over him with a bright smile on her face.

“What are you so happy about?” he asks. Oh lord, his clothes are strewn about, sprinkled with chess pieces. Next to him Caspian nuzzles into his pillow and says something unintelligible.

“I still say Beltane is more fun outdoors,” Lucy says as Caspian raises his head from the pillow, stares at her and makes a noise that wouldn’t be out of place coming from a five-year-old girl. “Oh, honestly, you two. Now get dressed and try to pretend that you will be fathering children sometime this decade, Caspian. I’m sure Drinian will appreciate the charade.”

Edmund laughs at that and keeps laughing long after Lucy is gone and Caspian tries to smother him with a pillow. They get up eventually, sort their garments and return the chess set to the cupboard. When they go out, they manage to keep a respectable distance and not stare at each other for too long at a time.

The charade fools no one.

THE END.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Дай мне безмолвное солнце](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159281) by [casmund](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casmund/pseuds/casmund)




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